


in your hands is my heart

by blackkat



Series: Feemor prompts [5]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friendship, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:20:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27869069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: “Howmany ships are inbound?” Keeli demands, snatching his helmet off the table by the door as he stalks out into the light.
Relationships: Keeli/Feemor
Series: Feemor prompts [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1941688
Comments: 19
Kudos: 382





	in your hands is my heart

“ _How_ many ships are inbound?” Keeli demands, snatching his helmet off the table by the door as he stalks out into the light.

“Seven transports,” Vector says grimly, and he clearly knows just how much of a death sentence that is if they actually manage to land. “I sent a crew of gunners up into the hills to try and take them out, but—”

It’s a big but. If the gunners miss, or are spotted, or the clankers have shields, the whole settlement is going to get hit by an army they don’t have _nearly_ enough men to deal with.

“General Feemor?” he asks, and Vector shakes his head.

“Can't raise him on the comm, or I would have gone there first.”

Unease washes through Keeli, and he takes a harsh breath. “Call command,” he orders. “I’ll get the general.” This time of day, Feemor's been going down to the local medical center to see if they need help, and it’s thankfully not too far away. He picks up a run, heading across the camp as the whole division sets to readying themselves, and makes it down the hill and into the settlement before the shouts even really start to rise.

The center is at least easy to find, right on the main street, and for once there isn't anyone waiting outside. Keeli ducks through, settling his helmet under his arm, and takes a single step before the Devaronian woman at the desk is jerking a finger towards the back.

“Supply room,” she says, rising to her feet. “Prep the ward?”

“Hopefully they won't get this far,” Keeli says, which means _yes_ , and the woman nods like she knows that.

“Feed him,” she says, already moving. “He spent all morning with patients.”

Of course he did. Keeli's breath rattles in his chest, because he’d thought that after Ryloth his luck was gone, dead with his general, but—

Well. There was a little more waiting for him, apparently.

The back room is cordoned off with a heavy door, but Keeli's been here enough times to know the code by heart, and he punches it in, then shoves the reluctant door the rest of the way open and steps in. “General Feemor, there are Separatist transports—”

“What?” Feemor pushes away from the small sink, turning quickly, but Keeli can't answer. It’s like he’s forgotten every single word he’s ever known, because—

Because the general is standing there shirtless, blond hair wet and spiked with water, more drops running down over his shoulder. Over the _tattoos_ on his shoulders and chest, his arms. They're a shade of blue Keeli hasn’t seen before, bright and crisp, and the lines of them tangle like endless knots across Feemor's skin.

Keeli's always known Feemor was handsome. Everyone with _eyes_ knows that Feemor is handsome. It’s one thing to know, though, and another to _see_. To slam into that knowledge face-first and without any warning at all.

Keeli kind of wants to curse. Kind of wants to step forward and touch those tattoos, trace the line of the muscle down Feemor's arms. Unable to help himself, he follows the trail of water up, and…

Feemor is staring right back at him, eyes a little wide. “Captain?” he asks, and there's a note of uncertainty to it.

Keeli blinks, looking from Feemor's face to the helmet under his arm, and abruptly realizes that he hasn’t taken his bucket off in front of Feemor before. All that distance he’s been trying to put between them means that he’s been careful not to relax too much, or ease up, and—he forgot, in the rush, to put it on this time.

“Sorry, sir,” he says, chagrined, and it seems far too late to put it on now. “I was in a rush.”

Feemor smiles, and he looks relieved, grateful. “I definitely don’t mind, Captain.” Grabbing his robes, he pulls them on quickly, belting them and then grabbing his armor as he makes for the front of the center. As he fits the comm over his arm and buckles the chestplate into place, Keeli hurries to fall into step, getting the door and then following him up the hill at a jog.

The fact that Feemor is wearing armor is because Keeli asked him to. Keeli _knows_ that, but—maybe that’s been another thing he’s been trying not to think about recently.

“Transports?” Feemor asks, and Keeli nods, dragging his thoughts back into order.

“Seven incoming,” he says. “We’ve got gunners heading up into the hills to get a bead on them, but…”

“But,” Feemor agrees with a rueful smile. “Captain, round up a squad willing to follow me up and meet them. We need to hold off as many of the droids as possible.”

Something kicks in Keeli's chest, and he says, “I'm coming with you,” before he can think better of it.

There's no objection, though. Feemor casts him a smile, settling his armor, and says, “I was hoping you would, Captain.”

There are horns painted on his armor, Keeli thinks, and he almost can't breathe. Feemor has horns painted on his armor that match the ones on Keeli's helmet, the same dark red, the same shape. He’s wearing _Keeli's mark_ , freely and openly, and there isn't even time for Keeli to think about what it _means_.

Later, he tells himself with a ragged breath, and pulls his helmet on. Later.


End file.
